Vanishing Night
by lembas7
Summary: Knowledge is dangerous. Those with it have the power to change the world, and that is worth killing for. Thus when the Knight is kidnapped, the Priory must find him... before it is too late. [Companion piece to 'Seatbelt'. Movieverse.]
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **The DaVinci Code characters and premise belong to Dan Brown, and the movieverse world belongs to someone else as well. OC's and the plot are mine.

**A/N:** The beliefs expressed in this fic are not mine; rather, they are what I perceive to be the beliefs of the characters. This fic is intended to begin at the end of the movie (not the book!) and it is the companion piece to SEATBELT. Upcoming chapters will make more sense if you've read that first (it's short! Don't be afraid!).

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VANISHING NIGHT

Eyes watched.

Murder suspects, even cleared, never erase the stigma. Fugitives have even less chance of doing so. And in the previous day, Robert Langdon, Professor of Religious Symbology at Harvard University, had been both of these to France.

So the eyes watched, unaware of anything but their focus. Unaware of each other; one set benevolent, the other malign.

It was too soon to tell, after all, if he was wholly innocent. Strange things had happened in the last thirty-six hours. Explanations were needed. And even more questions arose.

So the eyes watched.

It was too soon to tell, after all, the extent of what he knew. Jacques Saunière had taken the secret of the Holy Grail to his grave. But the Louvre's curator had chosen Langdon for some as-yet-unknown reason. And that was reason enough to track his every movement.

So the eyes watched.

After a long moment, Langdon rose from where he knelt. Two fingers traced the brass disc marking the Rose Line atop _Le Pyramide Inversèe_, before the dark-haired man walked carefully off the skylight and onto pavement.

Eyes followed.

All the way back to his hotel, the eyes observed as Robert Langdon drew the shades and made ready for sleep, too long denied.

One set of eyes settled in for the night watch, but the other moved. Through back doors and the hotel lobby, past other eyes in the camouflage of confidence and a clerk's modest clothing. Up the back stairs, away from the wary eyes that held no ill intent and would likely interfere to protect the Professor. Quiet through early hours and carpeted halls, he would take his quarry by surprise.

Silent and with a master keycard, he expected Langdon to be deeply asleep; so exhausted that the chloroformed kerchief in hand was only a precaution.

He was unprepared to find the man awake, staring once more at a page in a book. Awake, and wary with the adventures of the last day.

"Monsieur Langdon?" the man attempted to excuse his abrupt entrance.

"Yes?" The _Sacré Féminin_ hit the small endtable. Langdon approached, blue eyes tired. The clerk hid his glee.

"There is a small problem with your credit card down at the front desk." His accent was a bare trace of Calais through the English words.

Puzzlement wrinkled Langdon's brow. Suspicion gleamed in blue eyes; with catlike quickness, the clerk darted at him. The professor stumbled back from the swift advance, but not quickly enough to avoid the blow that sent him staggering against the bed. The clerk leapt for him, but Langdon rolled away, gaining his feet as crimson bloodied his split lip.

Bedclothes tangled his feet as the clerk raced over the mattress; Langdon fought back, with all the terror and adrenaline of a man cornered. But the hotel's soundproofing was expensive, and no one heard his shouts for help.

It took more than he expected to subdue the professor, but mere minutes later the clerk was leaning over Langdon as the man kicked up from the floor. One hand restrained struggling wrists, the other clamped smothering cloth over nose and mouth. He was half on top of the fighting man, watching carefully as Langdon strained for breath and blue eyes became dazed with the cloying sweetness of chloroform.

He left the man breathing through the kerchief for a good moment longer, just to be certain. The professor was not what he had expected; he would take no chances. After that, it was the work of a moment to put to rights the room, pack the few remaining belongings, and make a phone call to the front desk as he shucked his clothes in favor of a change. His uncle, he explained, needed to leave for the airport immediately; there had been a sudden family emergency. But he had taken his sleeping pills before receiving the call, and what was a dutiful nephew to do but request a wheelchair from the front desk…

He had ten minutes to make another phone call.

_"I have the package." _Spoken Latin was lost to scholars, but not to them.

_"There were no problems, I trust."_

_"None, your Grace." _

_"And you are on your way."_ It wasn't a question.

_"Momentarily."_ The man who was not a clerk paused. _"And the Council of Shadows?"_

A breath in his ear. _"You have nothing to fear."_ The line went dead.

He arranged Langdon carefully on the bed, cleaning the professor's split lip and putting the room to rights. It didn't require much, simply righting a toppled endtable and shoving an armchair to its previous position. The next few steps to the plan were at least less physically taxing. A taxi would not be hard to obtain; and then it was a simple matter of transporting the unconscious man to the heart of Opus Dei.

No one would find him there.

The man who was not a clerk smiled as hotel staff rang the bell. "Thank you so much," he gushed. "My uncle is a heavy sleeper once he has taken his medication."

The bellboy nodded politely. "Do you require any assistance, sir?"

An arm under Langdon's back, and another under his knees, the man who was not a clerk hesitated, feigning embarrassment. "Actually, if you could -"

The two managed to lift the unconscious Langdon into the chair, and the man who was not a clerk sighed as they waited for the elevator. "Thank you. We really must hurry; the plane leaves quite soon and we cannot miss the flight. An emergency – a horrible accident – my uncle will be glad to be home when he awakens."

"Please don't forget to check out before you go," the young man reminded him. "It would be a shame if the hotel billed you for nights you didn't enjoy in Paris."

The man who was not a clerk nodded, thoughtfully. "Thank you. In all the rush, I'd almost forgotten."

When the doors opened, he moved to the front desk and scribbled a signature on the credit card receipt before loading professor and suitcase into a taxicab. Several moments' drive brought them to the bolt-hole of a house he had leased in the city. From there, it was only to pay the driver before all pretenses were dropped. As soon as the cab was out of sight, he returned to the house and securely tied the still-unconscious professor. Then, he loaded the limp body into the back of his own car, prepared to drive through the night.

And so it was not until the keynote speaker left a large seminar waiting for over an hour the following morning that anyone noticed Professor Robert Langdon was missing.


	2. Chapter 2

The sun shone clear this morning, after the thunderstorm that had raged most of the night. Sophie was glad for the cheerful light; it was a new dawn for her, in more ways than one –

"We have a problem."

She looked up from her tea, to the suited man speaking with her _grand-mère_. There were two of them, bodyguards and butlers after the strange manner of the English, who had protected Marie Chauvel while she raised her grandson.

Sophie's brother, David, glanced up sharply from his omelet. "What's wrong?"

Mitch's round face was unaccountably grim. "Robert Langdon has been kidnapped."

"_What!_" Her brother reached out a hand, easing her back into her chair. But brunch was forgotten. "What happened?" she demanded.

Jasper, the second of her grandmother's bodyguards and slightly taller than his counterpart, grimaced. "This morning, Professor Langdon failed to show at a seminar he was to give to the students of the University of Paris. On searching his hotel room, it was discovered that his belongings were missing. The hotel staff was questioned, and it was revealed that the professor's nephew had taken him on a flight home the previous night due to sudden family emergency -"

"But there were no planes scheduled to leave for America within the next six hours. Contacting relatives in America showed that not only was there no emergency, but Robert Langdon is an only child," Mitch put in. The bodyguard was angry; and _grand-mère_ was worried.

"No nephews," David nodded. Sophie recognized the smoldering fury in his eyes; she'd seen it in her own mirror often enough. A crease formed between David's brows. "'Taken him'?" he quoted, curious.

"The staff told authorities that the man claimed Langdon had taken medication," Jasper said grimly.

"Sleeping pills," Mitch clarified with a skeptical snort. "As if after two days without sleep he'd really need it."

"He was drugged, then," _grand-mère_ murmured, lifting a blue-patterned cup to her lips for a shaky sip. Living with the sure knowledge that such things happened never made it any easier when they struck close to home.

"The evidence suggests it." Jasper growled. The bodyguard leant in the doorjamb, eyes both on the family in the kitchen and on a clear line of sight out a back window. Mitch was across the room, lurking behind lace curtains and scanning the driveway through leaded panes.

"What about this 'nephew', then?" she asked, reaching for pen and paper to take notes. She didn't spare the two 'butlers' a second glance; from what her brother had told her, they were always like this. And it had saved his life more than once.

Jasper sighed, his deep voice bitter. "The staff put together a composite sketch, but we've yet to find the taxi that drove off with them."

"Once we do, there's a chance we might be able to find out more." Mitch set flicked curtains back into place, moving to another window.

"What's the next step," Sophie muttered to herself. She glanced up suddenly. "How do you know all this?"

Mitch and Jasper exchanged a glance that she couldn't understand. "We've connections in Paris," Mitch offered. Priory. He didn't need to say it. "And after yesterday, we're all still on alert."

She knew that they were choosing a new Grand Master – and she turned her mind from those thoughts. Blood-relative or not, he had raised her. Though the Priory of Sion had been crippled by the loss of its four leaders, it was by no means beyond hope. _Contingency plan,_ was what her grandmother had said.

"What are we going to do?" Sophie asked.

David put his fork aside gently. "You can't go."

She sat back in her chair, and didn't even bother to acknowledge that. "I'm going to Paris on the next available flight." She was dialing the airport when a wrinkled hand closed over the cell phone. _Grand-mère_.

She looked up into the kind face of Marie Chauvel. "I'm not going to abandon him," she said quietly.

A loving smile was directed her way. "So determined," _grand-mère_ murmured, brushing at Sophie's hair. "So like your mother." The older woman glanced at the two bodyguards, and then at David.

Her brother leant over the table, dark eyes locking on hers. "We're not going to abandon him," David told her. A glance went to Mitch and Jasper; both men nodded. "He is a Knight, and we owe him more than we can ever repay. We will help him."

"You are not going to stop me from looking for him," she said intently. "Robert saved my life – he helped me find you!"

"We cannot let you go back to Paris," Jasper objected.

"I must return," Sophie contradicted, slipping the cell phone from her grandmother's grasp. "I have to close my affairs there, sell my home, collect my things -"

"We already have people on it." Mitch, pushing sandy blond strands away from his forehead.

Sophie watered down her glare. "Really."

David sighed, recognizing that she had no plans to back down. Then the argument began in earnest. "What can you do if you go?"

"I am a member of the Paris Police force. I can -"

"A cryptographer," he pointed out, pushing plates and cutlery to the side.

"Regardless, I know how to take care of myself," Sophie flared, stabbing her fork at the last of her brunch. Upset or not, it _was_ the first food she'd seen in two days; sleep had outweighed her stomach's complaints the previous night.

"One of us has to stay safe."

Sophie gaped, forgetting her last forkful of melon. "_You're_ not going!"

"I owe him," David snapped. He ran an exasperated hand through brown curls in disarray. "I won't stand by if I can help, and I will do my best to repay my debt."

"How do you owe him?" she asked blankly. "You don't even know him."

David rolled his eyes a moment, and then ignored the question. "Regardless, I'm going." It seemed that his long years in England meant that he picked up their stringent sense of honor as well, Sophie fumed silently.

"So am I," she declared. David glared at her, but he'd run out of plausible arguments. After a moment, the angry stare softened, and the two sighed.

"I guess I can't change your mind," he said at last.

"You gave it a good try." She smiled at him.

A throat cleared experimentally.

David carted dishes to the sink with an exasperated sigh. "What?"

Jasper folded his hands neutrally over his immaculately pressed suit. "I don't believe you've considered that we're not going to let either of you out of the country." This statement was nearly scorched from the air by twin glares.

"Guess not," Mitch muttered, tongue-in-cheek.

"We're going," Sophie said flatly.

"And it's final," David added.

_Grand-mère_ chuckled softly. "And that, I do believe, is that."

"The next flight leaves in three hours," Sophie sighed, discontentedly flipping shut her cell phone.

"The next flight leaves whenever you're ready," Mitch corrected her. "We have a jet."

The next flight left less than an hour later, bearing David, Sophie, and Mitch back to Paris. Jasper stayed with _grand-mère_ on the condition that they stay with the Priory in France. Sophie was still bewildered by the overprotective attitudes of these men who were almost complete strangers to her. It was stifling, and awkward.

"We need to examine the scene," she muttered, still jotting notes on her papers. David yawned uncomfortably; they were still gaining altitude, and Sophie's ears popped unpleasantly.

Mitch stoically chewed a stick of gum. "Will your police clearance be enough to get us on the scene?"

Sophie gazed at the plane wing as it sliced through clouds just outside her window. "It should be." She'd gotten to the site of Jacques Saunière's murder with little enough trouble.

Mitch grunted, pulling out a cell phone as the plane leveled out. "I'll arrange alternate clearance, just in case."

"A good idea," Sophie agreed. She might be able to get herself onto a crime scene, but she had flimsy excuses at best for the presence of her brother and the bodyguard.

David was chewing absently on a thumbnail, his elbow propped on the armrest. It was something he had done as a child, and _mère_ had scolded him for it. "Mother never liked it when you did that," Sophie spoke up.

David started guiltily. "I know," he smiled at her, intertwining his fingers on his lap. "I didn't think you remembered."

She hadn't, until she'd seen him, and she said so.

David smiled back. "Father would laugh, and say that I would grow out of it." His face grew sad. "I guess she was right."

"It was her idea to go on the trip," Sophie strained for the memory.

David perked up. "Was it?"

The small notepad rested in her skirted lap. The flight was quite short; they would be in Paris in a little over an hour. Less, if the wind was with them. "You don't remember?"

Close-cropped brown curls shook in the negative. "Not the trip. Or the accident. _Grand- mère_ told me that I hit my head in the crash."

Sophie picked up her pen. "I remember."

David took the cue, and the silence that fell between them became easier the longer it stretched.

Mitch stretched his legs, pausing in the aisle as he passed. "We're only a few minutes out. The pilot's going to start the descent. Best buckle up."

When they touched down in France less than fifteen minutes later, a discreet car was waiting for them. Math formulas solved themselves in her brain as they drove through the streets of Paris; the constancy of numbers had always comforted her.

The hotel room was guarded by a policeman, but he let Sophie pass on seeing her police credentials. The identification that Mitch arranged had been brought to the two men by a dour-faced woman waiting on tarmac. It too stood up to the guard's inspection. Sophie was quietly impressed.

"It all looks so . . . normal," she murmured, slipping on latex gloves. If she hadn't known, she would never have suspected someone had been assaulted here. That it was Robert hurt her heart. "I've left hotel rooms messier."

Mitch was studying the bed. "Someone kicked through the sheets and blankets." There was a faint black scuff mark on white cloth indicating where a shoe had tread. A towel, now dry, was slung across the bed as well.

David knelt by a small yellow marker between bed and window. "Blood," he said quietly. It was hard to see against the maroon carpet, and it was only a few drops. But it was there.

"The forensic team's already been through?" Mitch had pulled a small camera from somewhere, and was documenting the scene with care. While the French police has already done so, it was easier to obtain direct evidence for the Priory while they were here, than risk getting caught hacking into government computers.

Sophie blinked at the flash. "Yes. They are usually some of the first on the scene." Second only to emergency responders and paramedics, that was.

David had moved to the bathroom. "Nothing," he called, light baritone voice echoing through the tiny tiled closet.

A flash of grey, out of place, caught her eye. "Look." Sophie reached in a slender hand, fingertips only just closing on paper. She wriggled the book free from where it had slipped between wall and endtable – and found herself inexplicably staring at a copy of _Sacré Féminin_. "Robert's book."

Shoes soft on carpet, David peered over her shoulder. "He wrote it. Why would he have a copy?"

"I don't know." Sophie flipped through the pages.

"Look." Mitch stuck a gloved finger into printed paper. Ink marked several of the pictures; notes rambled along next to lines of text. English and Latin; numbers and letters.

"Dates," she breathed, tilting the book.

A golden, aged map revealed the world to them on the next page. "Rose Line," David frowned at the clearly marked Prime Meridian. An arrow in blue ink connected to two words almost hidden inside the spine. "'Blood line'?"

Mitch glanced anxiously at them. "What does it mean?"

"I don't know," David shrugged, frustration in every line of his body.

Sophie thought furiously – and a memory of the last few days of adventure came to mind. "I think I know someone who might."

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**A/N: **The last chapter was just to whet your appetite. This is the typical chapter length I go for. Also, while this update was quite timely, I'm not sure about the next few. I'm still working out plot kinks, and I don't deal with riddles very well. Thanks so much to all my reviewers; knowing that there's interest in what I'm up to keeps me going! 


	3. Chapter 3

_Cold_, was his first impression on waking. Blue eyes opened. _Dark._ And as he tried to shift position, Robert was suddenly aware that he was lying on a freezing, flat surface. And he was bound.

Sticky duct tape wrapped around his ankles; his arms were firmly tied behind his back. Blinking, he squinted to penetrate the cloak of darkness, but only shadowy shapes cleared themselves in his wavering vision. At the very least, he was alone. _Wherever I am._

Shoes hit a wall as he stretched cramped legs. It was the work of a moment to brace himself and lever stiff limbs upright.

Robert coughed as false darkness threatened to drag him back under. His head swam; his heartbeat was loud in his ears. Deep breaths brushed away the fingers of unconsciousness trying to regain their grip on his mind.

And as the last remnants of the drug and exhaustion slipped away, he could begin to take stock of his situation.

_Small room. Storage?_ The shapes he could barely make out might have been crates or boxes. He sneezed at the dust he'd kicked up. _Unused._

The sudden shaft of light was a slap in the face. Pain speared his eyes; blinking, Robert shoved back the budding headache. _Damn drugs._

"You're awake."

He knew the voice, the faint accent. But when the face showed itself, there was no immaculately groomed moustache, and the hair was darker. The lines of the face were different; rounder, and less lean. Someone had used makeup magic to subtly alter angles and complexion. That was gone, and a chill settled in Robert's bones. _No chance of him letting me go now._

So he would have to make his own escape.

"Robert Langdon."

No use denying it, if they'd been confident enough of his identity was to kidnap him. "Yes?"

"You are searching for the Holy Grail."

White teeth bared in a smile at the surprise he struggled to hide. "Who are you?"

The man actually considered the demand, before shrugging lightly. "You may call me the Disciple."

_From the Latin _discipulus,_ meaning student. As Leigh was the teacher –_ Foreboding cast a pall over his mind.

The man withdrew something from his pocket; dark and heavy with lead, he studied the handgun. It wasn't aimed in Robert's direction. Yet. "Where is the Holy Grail?"

"I don't know."

While the Disciple stood in the shaft of light spearing from the open door, Robert sat in shadows. Enough, he hoped, for his wince at the lie to go unnoticed. He couldn't say anything. One path would lead them to the bones of Mary Magdalene; the other pointed straight to Sophie and the Priory. Neither was an option.

The Disciple toyed with the safety of the gun. On, off. On, off. It didn't go back on again.

But if this man truly wanted Robert to find the Grail for him, there wasn't much they could do.

"Jacques Saunière mentioned _you_," the man mused idly. The gun swiveled round, and found Langdon half-propped against the cinderblock wall. "Specifically. Why would he do that, do you think?"

"I don't know."

The Disciple smirked. "I don't believe you."

Robert managed to shrug, shoving back panicked dismay. "It doesn't matter. I still don't know."

"Don't you?" He pulled the trigger.

Robert flinched, expecting the pain; but the bullet had thudded harmlessly into a crate at his side, spraying him with splinters. "No!" he snapped, nerves taut. "I don't! And shooting me isn't going to change that!"

The Disciple shot him a little smile. "You are right about that." His amusement was unsettling. A thumb flicked the safety, and the man gave a short, ironic bow. "Until next we meet, Professor."

And Langdon was left in the dark once again.

_What was that?_ He didn't understand it. _He wanted to rattle me._ The Disciple had succeeded. But more importantly – _how_ had the man known what had been in Jacques Saunière's message? No one but the French police knew about the fourth line of text that Inspector Fache had erased.

_I have to get out of here._

He couldn't see anything, but memory saved him. _Bullet, crashing into the crate as the casing was flung from the chamber into darkness _. . . . Ragged wood beckoned. Inching and twisting, he managed to set his bonds against the jagged, broken edge of cheap wooden planks. It was slow, painstaking work; though luckily, speeding lead had blasted a larger hole in the crate than the bullet itself could account for. _Sir Isaac Newton to the rescue once more. _

By the time he was done, splinters had burrowed through both his jacket and sweater sleeves to taste skin. But he was free. A few more moments' work loosed his feet, but Robert wasted no time stretching out the cramps from hours in the same constrained position.

The door was locked from the outside.

A quick search of pockets yielded a pen, a ticket stub, a dime and two stray quarters.

Memory. _The door opened inward, light spilling across darkness broken only by the shadow of someone approaching_ . . .

The door opened _inward. _The hinges were on the inside. Probing fingers found three. This place – whatever it was, had probably never been intended for a holding cell. The door was light aluminum; formidable to a man without tools, but not as impassible as a heavy fire door might have been. It would be difficult, but not impossible.

So it just might work.

A few moments of preparation, and then he set up a shout that could be heard two towns away. _At least, I hope so._

The Disciple let him yell for a good ten minutes before footsteps sounded outside the door. "No one will hear you," the low voice was muffled by the door. Metal scraped; tumblers shifting in the lock.

The door began to open; and halted, jammed. The Disciple leant puzzled weight against the obstruction, just as Langdon flung himself against the door from the inside. It slammed closed again, but he'd already turned to knob to prevent it from locking him in once more. A kick to the junction of door and jamb dislodged the quarters, and Robert yanked the door open, jumping on the man who'd been thrown, dazed, to concrete.

Memory. _The Disciple pulled the handgun from his right jacket pocket –_

He grabbed for it, and the man started to fight back as thought returned and he realized what was happening. Too late.

Langdon had the gun; he slammed the Disciple upside the head with it, and the man fell, unconscious.

A quick search of the immediate area showed that he had been locked in a storage area in a basement. The Disciple had probably reversed the doorknob to turn a secured storage area into a place to hold a prisoner. He also found duct tape.

He didn't have much time; hauling the now-trussed Disciple into the storage room, he turned out the man's pockets. Cell phone, keys, wallet and pocketknife. Robert took them all, and locked the door. It wouldn't hold him for long, but he had to find out where he was, and how to get out of here.

The wallet was a good place to start. A license identified the Disciple as Evrard Moreau, age thirty-four, resident of Sangatte. _No wonder he sounded like he was from Calais._ Robert _had_ heard that accent before; he'd spent time in the port city after crossing the English Channel by ferry the previous week.

And that put him two and a half hours outside Paris.

Next, the car keys.

He took the stairs up from the basement, and found himself in a clean, sparsely furnished house. Church-silent, and just as empty. Sun wriggled past curtains to lie quietly on the floor; it was noon, by the clock on the wall.

He went for the exit, and found a small plaque just above the doorbell. _Opus Dei._ It was an Opus Dei House – and he wasted no more time for thought. The car was parked around back, and for all it was the middle of the day, the neighborhood was empty. The people were at work or lunch, he hoped.

Backing the car out of the driveway, Robert did his best to negotiate the signs. He had the cell phone, but – _I was a murderer yesterday. The police would track me down and alert Inspector Fache – and he is Opus Dei. I'd be right back where I started. _

Though Fache had had the opportunity to take him into custody in England, and had extradited Teabing instead. He didn't know what that meant – but he wasn't sure if he trusted it.

As for the other. . .

It took longer than he wanted to find the proper highway; but the signs said it went to Paris, so he stepped on the gas. Moreau was probably out by now, and Langdon could only guess what he would do next.

_The Disciple._

A gut feeling told him that Moreau was somehow connected to Teabing. Sir Leigh had been a distant friend, but a colleague first and foremost. Robert had seen enough academic enthusiasm that the man's betrayal hadn't come as that great a surprise; but it had hurt.

A blaring horn moved him out of the way of a small, speeding car. A green blur roared past.

_Enough._ There was nothing he could do about it now except deal with it. _Leigh was using Opus Dei to try to force the discovery of the Holy Grail. He was the Teacher – he had connections to the highest levels of the sect. Probably the Council of Shadows. _Which meant that the forces arrayed against him would be almost limitless once they discovered his escape.

The speedometer needle crept a little higher.

While the other scholar had attempted to find the Grail, he'd both kept Opus Dei from discovering who he was, and used their resources to get Langdon out of the way.

_But why?_

Robert let the question stew as he wove through a pack of cars with English identification plates. He returned to his thoughts as the highway stretched, clear and empty, through the windshield.

Teabing had no way of knowing that Jacques Saunière had any connection to Langdon; yet somehow he'd managed to get Fache convinced of Robert's guilt, and set the resources of the Paris Police against him. But all Leigh had wanted was for the Holy Grail to be revealed. He'd sent the strange monk to do the work a crippled old man could not; though Robert still didn't understand the place of his butler, Remy. Obviously the whole scene in Temple Church had been an act, but –

It was less a matter of faith and more a matter of prestige; to be the one who overturned thousands of years of belief and history . . . .Teabing would have been immortalized by the discovery. But he had never wanted the bones of Mary Magdalene destroyed, which is what would happen should Opus Dei prevail.

_I'm missing something._

Something key. But he didn't know enough about what had happened in the past few days to know who would be after him now. Teabing had given him up as a sacrificial lamb for the ire of Opus Dei. The monk had been after them because they stood in the way of discovering where the Grail was; and the rest of the strict Catholic sect was now after him for the same reason.

He felt a small rush of relief at knowing that Sophie at least was safe.

A black sedan passed him on the right.

But it left him with few recourses. He had only one goal now – to get to the American Embassy. There, at least, he would be able to think without threat of police involvement. Opus Dei had shown more than once that their reach easily extended into France's police force and government. These were powerful tools, ones that Langdon could outthink and outrun, but never completely outmaneuver while he was still in the country.

Even in America . . . _The Church stretches across the world. As does Opus Dei._

Yesterday, he'd had the hope of being innocent, company, and a quest to sustain him. Robert was alone now, with no hope of help. He couldn't even speak the language. If Opus Dei caught up with him. . . .

He was in serious trouble.


	4. Chapter 4

"Thank you." Tucking away her badge, Sophie led David and Mitch through to the secure interrogations room. Teabing would be brought out to them shortly, so long as Collet didn't get wind of what was going on.

David slipped away for a moment, murmuring something about security; he came back ten minutes later with a quietly triumphant smile, having disabled the room's audio surveillance. She didn't even want to know how he managed that.

Now her brother leant against the wall behind her, carefully casual for the multiple video cameras and two-way mirror. The room was wired for sight only, now; Mitch's eyes flicked around the room, marking signs of the surveillance equipment Sophie knew to be there.

The door opened a few short moments later. The wheelchair wasn't what she had expected; but then, Sophie had seen the damage Teabing had dealt out to the albino monk. Taking his canes away was the only safe option.

The police escort said, for her ears alone, "I'll wait just outside the door."

"Ah, my dear," the Englishman greeted her with a secret smile.

She turned her attention back to the elderly scholar, but his quick eyes had already traveled the room.

"And you've brought your brother to see me! How kind of you, my dear," Teabing beamed, pleasant as Sunday mass. Sophie gaped at him; and he elaborated. "You do look something alike, my dear, and your reaction told me the rest. But I believe introductions can wait. Tell me," and now his focus shifted to David, "did your grandfather train you as well?"

"Robert has been kidnapped," Sophie interrupted. There was no time for this, and the man was far too clever for anyone's good. Especially his own, judging by the contained anger on Mitch's face.

"Really?" Teabing leant forward, quite interested. But his eyes lingered on David a long moment, calculating. "When did this happen?"

"You mean you didn't know?" The bodyguard sounded quite skeptical.

The old man harrumphed, shifting in his chair. "Of course I didn't know! Of all the preposterous – what do you take me for?"

David glanced at the prison attire, the cuffs and the chair, and folded his arms comfortably over his chest. "A criminal."

"Yes, well, your colleagues were not good enough to post a reasonable bail," Teabing sniffed, speaking pointedly to Sophie. He held up chained wrists. "If they had, I might at this very moment be entertaining you respectably. Instead of -"

"In jail?" Mitch was not amused; fingers curled into fists. He stalked the room, a roving counterpoint to her brother, who was propped against the wall and taking everything in silently.

"Yes, well, there is that small detail."

"Who might have kidnapped Professor Langdon?" Mitch gritted out. David seemed amused by the bodyguard's irritation with the dapper villain; Sophie wanted nothing more to wrap her hands around his neck and squeeze. To have seen her anger at the monk who had killed her grandfather, and sat smilingly next to her on the plane, all the while knowing that he had been the one to order the curator murdered –

"Well, I should think that's quite obvious, young man," Teabing sniffed. And then his eyes were on her again. "Tell me, Sophie, my dear, did you find her?"

She looked into grey eyes, intent and hungry, and found a question. "Why should I tell you?"

"Why should you -" he sputtered, outraged. "Why, you never would have gotten as far as you did without me! I helped you evade the Paris police -"

"You set Robert up to take the blame for the murders _you_ orchestrated! You set all this in motion!"

"A minor technicality," he insisted. "It was all for the sake of -"

"It was not minor to my grandfather," she hissed.

That silenced him, as nothing yet said had. For the first time, Teabing looked old. "I am truly sorry for your pain, my dear."

"I do not want your apology," she snapped. "I want you to tell me who kidnapped Robert, and where they took him."

"I wouldn't worry about Robert," the older man had regained some of his spunk. He waved a dismissive hand, accompanied by the clink of the chains that restrained hands and feet. "He's quite resourceful."

David stepped forward and glared at the Englishman. Mitch came up on his other side, surrounding him on all fronts.

Teabing looked at the angry faces ringing him, and nervousness flashed in grey eyes. He heaved a dramatic sigh, but Sophie wasn't fooled. Sweat glistened on his face under the harsh lights. "I can only guess," Teabing told them, sitting stiff and folding his hands primly. "But I would say Opus Dei has decided Robert has something they want."

"What could that possibly be?" Sophie asked, glancing at David.

"Why my dear girl!" Teabing couldn't believe his ears. "The location of the Holy Grail, of course!" He chuckled. "What else would it possibly be!"

"Why would Opus Dei think that Langdon would know that?" Mitch probed intently. "As far as they know, he is only a professor. How would they make that association?"

Deep brown eyes widened when Sophie realized what Mitch was asking. "You told them!" she raged. "You told Opus Dei that Robert was searching for the Grail! You set him up!"

Teabing shrugged. "Robert is quite an intelligent man. When I realized he was in the country – it was an opportunity not to be missed."

"An opportunity?" David pounced. "An opportunity for what?"

"An opportunity to make his move on the Priory, and give the French police a scapegoat. As well as to remove the one person who might have beaten him to the prize," Mitch spat, disgusted. "Langdon would know just how he managed to uncover the Holy Grail, if Teabing succeeded."

"Robert was a threat to you," Sophie murmured. "He was your friend."

Teabing snorted. "I'm an academic, my dear. And in this business, I don't have friends."

"You have no honor." Englishman to Englishman, the slur carried more weight than if it had been leveled at the knight by anyone else in the room.

Teabing drew himself up indignantly, opening his mouth to retort.

David didn't give him the chance. "Where would Opus Dei have taken Langdon?"

"I don't know."

Sophie leant across the table, ready and willing to breathe fire. "Where did they take him!"

"I don't know," the elderly man snapped. "I've made one call since your Inspector incarcerated me in this accursed dungeon, and that was to my lawyer. I certainly didn't order Robert kidnapped, no matter what you think of me. What would be the point of that now?" He waved bitterly at close cement walls.

"Revenge," David supplied, not giving an inch.

"I tell you I don't know!" Teabing exploded, thin face contorted in anger and fear. "Opus Dei houses are scattered all across the globe; the sect has hundreds of followers. Look there, if you want to find him!"

"That doesn't help," Mitch snarled, bare inches from the other Englishman's face.

Sophie thought Sir Leigh was going to have an apoplectic fit; fingers clenched on his chair arms as he shook with anger. "Why should I want to help you!"

He was still concealing many things, some of which would no doubt help them. But on this, he didn't know any more, and they all knew it.

Sophie met his eyes levelly. "Because I will tell you what you want to know, Sir Leigh."

They had tried force; now, she wanted to see what he would do if she dangled a piece of bait in front of him.

Shrewd grey eyes lit with eagerness, and narrowed warily. "Give me your word."

"You have it," she said instantly.

Teabing settled back in his chair, now more at ease. Anger still sparked in his movements, but his voice was level. "I truly didn't know that Robert had been kidnapped. I had several contingency plans in place should something . . . unforeseen occur. This might be one of them, or it might be Opus Dei acting on their own. I really don't know. I _did_ tell Bishop Aringarosa that Robert would interfere with the quest for the Grail, and instructed him on what to do to ascertain that he would not become a problem. But beyond that, I haven't the faintest idea where he could be or who could have taken him." Sir Leigh met her eyes with a look of smug satisfaction.

"Who is Bishop Aringarosa?" David pressed.

The Englishman shrugged. "Just my contact in the Council of Shadows, the head of Opus Dei within the Catholic Church. He was very suggestible to anything that would cement the status quo of the Vatican, and prevent the possibility of moral degradation that unveiling the Grail would incite," Teabing scoffed.

Greedy eyes locked on Sophie. "Tell me. What did you find? Was there any writing on the sarcophagus? Legend holds that the likeness of Magdalene is sculpted on the lid – oh, is it marble, or granite? Tell me -"

"We found nothing." Sophie did not trouble to hide her own sorrow at this. "We followed the papyrus," she chose her words carefully. Teabing believed that there had been a map inside the cryptex; she did not know what harm the knowledge that it had been a clue instead could do, but she was not about to enlighten him. "But when we got there, she was gone. She had been there. The marks where her sarcophagus sat were plain to see. But she was not there."

"No," Teabing moaned. "That's not possible! Where is the map, I must see it -"

"Robert has it," she told him, and savored the moment when he realized exactly what that meant.

Stiff posture dissolved into a despairing slump. "Then she is truly lost," he groaned, worrying at a knuckle. A palm slapped the arm of his chair in frustration, and Sophie caught a glimpse of tears in his eyes. "All for nothing. All _this_, for nothing. Even if she has disappeared into history, Opus Dei will destroy everything. All for _nothing_. . . ."

In his misery, Teabing didn't notice the knock on the door, but the arrival of Inspector Fache broke off the questioning. Sophie's superior stood a surprised moment in the doorway. The Inspector was tired, but his eyes settled sharply on each of them in turn. "I would like to see all of you in my office," he said abruptly. "Immediately."

Sophie nodded, and Fache disappeared. The guard outside the door entered in his stead, and Teabing, still muttering in despair, was wheeled away.

They had barely left the room before her brother turned to her. She knew what he was going to say.

"Sophie!" David hissed. Fear shone brightly in dark eyes. "What possessed you to tell him that?"

"He didn't even need to know that the papyrus was not destroyed with the cryptex." Mitch's voice was carefully free of emotion, but she felt the censure regardless.

"He already suspected," she countered. "What would you have me do? If I said nothing, he would only come after us again, to find out what we knew."

"He might have already decided to do so," David said thoughtfully. "The kidnapping would accomplish just that."

"But apparently he had no knowledge of it." Mitch frowned, scanning the hall.

"That's only if you believe him," Sophie sighed.

"I think I do, about that at least, Miss Sophie."

David still didn't look convinced.

"Come," Sophie headed down the hall. "Inspector Fache's office is this way."

"I thought you said he was Opus Dei."

"Shhh, David!" Sophie flapped a hand at him. There were few people in this narrow hall, but enough ears were present to make speaking of such things unwise. "Robert said he was wearing an Opus Dei pin."

"Did you see a pin, Mitch?"

"No."

"That might explain why -"

Sophie cut off the low conversation behind her by knocking on the Inspector's door. "You wanted to see me, Inspector Fache?"

"Come in. All of you," Fache waved them into the messy office. He'd shaved since the previous night, and changed his clothes. But from the shadows underhanging bloodshot eyes, sleep had been elusive. "Why were you speaking with the old man?"

"We thought Sir Teabing might have critical information about the kidnapping of Robert Langdon, due to his connection with . . . recent events."

Fache stared at Mitch. "And who are you?"

The blond bodyguard pulled out a wallet, handing over credentials for scrutiny. "Mitch Corwin, Special Constable. I was called in to handle our end of yesterday's excitement." He indicated Sophie's brother. "David St. Claire, my associate."

"I see," Fache murmured, returning the ID.

"Can you confirm that Monsieur Teabing has only made one phone call since he was arrested?" Sophie asked quietly.

"I can," Fache frowned at her. "He called his attorney. Why?"

"Damn." David turned away, pacing the room.

"Teabing was a lead on the Langdon kidnapping," Sophie explained, sitting on the only unoccupied chair in the room. The other was covered with stacks of folders and papers. "If he contacted anyone besides his lawyer, there was a chance that he could have been involved in the kidnapping."

"That's still a possibility," Mitch muttered. "But we won't get any more information from him."

Fache pinched the bridge of his nose. "A lead?"

Sophie nodded, and decided to gamble. "We believe the suspect is a member of Opus Dei."

The Inspector stiffened imperceptibly. "Do you have a name?"

Mitch shook his head. "There's strong evidence pointing to the fact that the man we're looking for might have taken Langdon to an Opus Dei house."

That caught his attention. Fache looked up at them, incredulous. "We do not have the resources for that kind of a search!"

"Are there any other leads?"

Fache was silent for a long moment. "Now that I know it is Opus Dei – there is one. Come – we must go to the Hospital."

They were silent leaving the station; help had come from an unexpected quarter. Hope, crushed by Teabing's ignorance, rose up in them once more. David gave the building a rueful glance as they followed Fache's car from the lot. "One thing's for certain. He'll have a good chance at the insanity plea."

Despite the circumstances, it surprised laughter from them all.


	5. Chapter 5

The highway was an unchanging blur through his windshield. Robert shook his head, trying to drive away dull lethargy from his brain and dry fatigue from his eyes. He'd been driving for an hour and a half in silent contemplation; the scenery was a peripheral blur of green as his mind slowly worked. And he didn't like his thoughts.

But there was little Langdon could do, and nowhere he could go, if Opus Dei was truly after him in force. For now, his only goal was to reach the American Embassy. _One step at a time. Just take it one step at a time._

Unexpected color in the rearview mirror caught his eye; on closer inspection, his heart sank.

Lights were flashing determinedly behind him. His only other choice being resisting arrest, Langdon pulled the car over to the side of the road. At least he'd gotten over halfway to Paris before disaster struck in the form of blaring sirens on a police car. He didn't have long to wait.

"_Monsieur. Est-ce que je peux voir votre permis?"_

Langdon grimaced. _"Anglais?"_

"May I see your license, _Monsieur_?" The officer's English was surprisingly clear. And suspicious.

"I don't have it," Langdon admitted, facing the short, uniformed man. The officer's bearing held the confidence of experience, not just that which came with the pistol strapped to his hip. Uniform, radio, cap – no pin, no sign of allegiance to Opus Dei. But that might not mean anything. _Coincidences do happen._ Even though he was loathe to believe that at the moment.

The officer's keen expression dissolved into one of shock. "_Monsieur._ Are you well?"

Robert knew what the policeman saw – tired blue eyes in a face pale with exhaustion. Bruises fingerprinted his throat where the monk had tried to strangle him. More marks on his face, from where he'd been slammed into a wall, and just a trace of blood near the hairline, almost covered by shaggy black strands. The rolled-up sleeves of the thin sweater revealed cuts scraping their way up his forearms. "Yes, I'm fine." Not quite a lie.

"Do you require medical treatment?"

"Ah, no." Dare he take the risk? _So much to lose. But -_ "I need to get to Paris. It's an emergency."

But the man was studying what features he could make out beyond the marks of violence on Langdon's face. _"Un moment."_

Knuckles clenched white on the wheel as the officer returned to his car. And his uplink to current wanted and missing persons files. Blowing out a breath, Robert hoped that his name was on the latter rather than the former. _Given the past two days, it's probably both._ And he loosened his grip on the steering wheel.

"Robert Langdon?" The officer had returned, with a paper printout and a look of disbelief.

"Yes?" He hoped that whatever spirit of goodwill had seized Fache in England has also led the Inspector to remove his name from Interpol's most wanted list. If not –

"If you would come with me, please?"

_This can't be good._ "Of course," was what he said instead, grabbing his jacket as he slid out the door.

The side of a major European highway was not where he wanted to be walking. Vehicles of all makes and models roared past at impossible speeds; Robert flinched from the noise as he trailed the officer to his car. But to his surprise, instead of being deposited in the back, he was offered the passenger seat. "Thank you."

"It is no trouble, _Monsieur,_" the officer said politely. He removed his cap, revealing thinning brown hair, and slipped sunglasses atop a hawklike nose. "The news came from Paris that you had been kidnapped last night. It is quite a shock to find you here. Driving a car reported stolen not an hour ago." There was a definite question in that last, and Langdon tried to keep from tensing as they pulled out into traffic. Gears ground and tires squealed, and Robert's fingers clenched in his jacket.

"Yes," he managed. _The Disciple reported the car stolen?_ He couldn't quite believe it. Oh, it was a smart move; it mobilized awareness among the police, and any who found him would be more inclined to be hostile towards a car-thief than sympathetic toward an escaped kidnapee. _But when it is discovered that the kidnapper placed the call – it will lead them right back to him. _

_Unless he's taken precautions to prevent it._ Which the man probably had.

The police car smelled faintly of nicotine and oil, and it sped along at just under ninety kilometers per hour. Langdon squinted back through the glare of sunlight off metal and glass. "Is it alright to just leave the car there?" It _was_ stolen property.

The officer laughed, one hand casual on the wheel as probing fingers sought past cellophane and cardboard for a cigarette. "My . . . you say, partner? My partner is bringing someone from the station to retrieve it. I am to bring you to Paris."

"Thank you," he breathed. They were making good time, with the speed the officer was driving; and Langdon was content to rest quietly. He was tired; and he had a few short moments of peace.

French crackled from the radio. _-"Voiture 512, répondent. Plus de."-_

The officer brought the squawking device to his mouth. -_"C'est voiture 512."-_

_-" Vous avez appréhendé le suspect dans le véhicule volé ?"-_

_-"_ _Oui. C'était Robert Langdon, l'homme manquant de Paris."- _The officer responded. Through the babble of foreign words, Langdon heard his name, and glanced at the driver. -_"Je suis sur mon chemin à la ville avec lui maintenant -"-_

_-"_ _Non. Revenez à la station immédiatement."_-

_-"Mais-"-_

-_"C'est un ordre."-_ The dispatcher's voice was harsh. Langdon blinked in surprise.

The officer sighed. –_"Oui. Plus d'et dehors."-_ He glanced at Langdon with a wry smile. "I must return to the station; _la capitaine_ is insisting."

Robert managed to nod politely, burying sweaty palms in the bundle of jacket on his lap. "Of course."

"It is not far," the man assured him, as the car squealed through an impossible turn into the oncoming lane. Rubber shrieked protest as the officer – whose name Robert still didn't know – slammed a foot on the gas.

Three lanes of traffic and one hair-raising turn later, they had exited the freeway and the officer was driving through a small city at a much more sedate pace.

"_Compiégne_," the officer told him, as they passed a firehouse bustling with activity. "My home. A beautiful city, _non?_"

It was. They shot down the road past the town hall before pulling into the station parking lot; the glimpse Langdon got was of an old, wonderfully ornate building towering above the smaller houses and shops on the streets to either side. It marked the town center, and the station was hidden down one of the side streets bordering the town hall.

He was brought to a small room, and told to wait; the officer reassured him with a smile that this was just a short delay, and they would be on their way again in no time. Robert didn't believe him. Oh, the officer seemed genuine enough in his concern and efficiency. _I have a bad feeling about this._

The same bad feeling that had followed hearing "safe-passage clause" from the mouth of the bank manager two nights ago. But there was little he could do until he knew more; so Langdon sat, and while he waited he wriggled the last stray splinters of wood from wool sleeves.

"_Monsieur Langdon?_"

Blue eyes found the speaker, a blonde woman who had entered quietly enough to escape notice. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry," the policewoman said with a polite smile and only the faintest traces of an accent. "I understand Officer Damane told you that you might wait here, but I'm afraid we're going to need this room momentarily. If you would come with me?"

A small, silver pin winked at him from a uniformed breast pocket. _Opus Dei._

"Of course." Jacket in hand, he followed her from the room. He let her show him to the room before he asked his question. "Excuse me, but is there a men's room nearby?"

With the bathroom door shut behind him, Robert ran his scraped arms under the faucet, hissing at the sting of water and soap. _If I roll down my sleeves, and put up my jacket collar –_ it might look a little strange, but the worst of the purpling marks on his neck would be hidden.

The window had about five layers of green paint on it and probably hadn't been opened in as many years, but Moreau's pocketknife was sharp. As he hauled glass panes upward it gave a horrid shriek, and the doorknob started to rattle. The lock was flimsy and wouldn't hold for long, but he was on the ground floor.

Slamming the window shut behind him cost a few moments, but it would slow the pursuit just as long. Folding the blade away, Robert crept through leafy branches and brush to the side of the building. Cutting through a shady back alley, he found himself on the sunlit street that led to the town hall.

Memory. _A chattering flock of tourists, searching bags and wallets for fare as they stood, waiting for the bus outside town hall. The car sped around the corner, pulling out of sight_ –

Moving with the crowd, Robert pulled the wad of the Disciple's money from his back pocket. Hundreds of Euros; enough to get him to Paris, if he was careful. Because the first place they would check would be the train station and bus terminals. He couldn't speak the language, and they knew it – that limited his options. And he didn't fancy the idea of walking all the way to Paris.

_Misdirection. Obfuscation. Hiding in plain sight. _

Time-honored tricks seen in history all over the world.

Taking the fastest route to Paris, when the police were expecting it and likely to be waiting for him at the end, was dangerous. Almost as dangerous as what he was going to do instead; but the longer he was on the run, the greater his chances of being caught through a mistake brought on by exhaustion. Langdon needed food, and he needed to rest.

But first, he needed to make sure his plan would work.

Twenty minutes and three stops later, Robert walked into a small bed-and-breakfast proclaiming _'ouvert'_. A few minutes of laughter and sign language, where his pathetic French met the rudimentary English of the young lady behind the desk, got him a room for the night. To which he immediately retreated, with a small bag containing the food he'd picked up from a nearby restaurant.

Basic needs taken care of, he moved to the bathroom, inspecting the cuts on his arms. All the labels were in French, but he'd managed to procure antiseptic and band-aids. A few of the gashes were surprisingly deep. After tending to the souvenirs of the last twenty-four hours in France, Langdon kicked off his shoes and turned out his pockets once more. _Pocketknife. Money. Pen. Cell phone._

The cell phone. He'd turned it off when he'd taken it from the Disciple; he didn't know much about tracking cell phone signals except that it could be done. _Better safe than sorry._ He would go through it later; there might be useful information about just who was contacting the Disciple – who Evrard Moreau was working for in Opus Dei.

_Not that I can do anything about whoever it is._ He wasn't a knight of old, no matter Sophie's teasing. The only weapon he had ever wielded was his mind, and he had no desire to change that.

Tucking the phone away, and setting the room phone to wake him, Robert glanced at his watch. _My train left half an hour ago. Good._ He placed the ticket on the bedside stand. Even though it was only three in the afternoon, he was dead tired, mind and vision blurry from lack of rest.

But he had eight hours, every intention of sleeping through most of them.

* * *

**A/N:** I will not pretend to be even ineptly able to speak French; Babel Fish Translations is my friend. If any of my readers actually know the language and see an error, please let me know what it is and how to fix it. Thanks!

_Ouvert_ – "open"

Translation of radio conversation (this is what it should be):

"Car 512, respond. Over."

"This is car 512."

"You have apprehended the suspect in the stolen vehicle?"

"Yes. It was Robert Langdon, the man missing from Paris. I am on my way to the city with him now -"

"No. Return to the station immediately."

"But -"

"That is an order."

"Yes. Over and out."


	6. Chapter 6

The ring of a cell phone cut through the murmurs from the car radio, and sent all three occupants scrambling for pockets.

"It's me." Mitch flipped the phone open, and Sophie reached out to cut off the scattered noise of the latest to hit France's record companies. She listened to one half of a conversation with growing puzzlement.

"Yes. Very good!" In the space of a breath, the elation in Mitch's face melted into a scowl. "He did. Really."

Sophie glanced at David, but the dark-haired man could only shake his head, as confused as she.

"You did. I see. Well, continue to check the city; it might be a ruse. Good. No, not as of yet. Good-bye," Mitch sighed, shaking his head.

"Well?"

"It seems," the body guard said with a tiny smile, "That our Knight has an absolute gift for evading the police."

"What?"

"You found Robert?" Sophie asked at the same time.

"Yes and no," Mitch answered, indicating that she should turn right. "About two hours ago, an Officer Damane pulled over a car matching the description of one stolen in Calais on the A1 highway outside of Compiégne. Langdon was driving it. From what the Officer could tell, he had escaped from his kidnappers and managed to get away."

"Taking their mode of transportation with him," David deducted with a note of definite admiration.

"What do you mean, from what he could tell?" Sophie asked, veering around a bicycler to follow Fache. "Didn't Robert tell him what happened?"

"Here's where it gets interesting," Mitch said, though his tone of voice suggested that it was only _interesting_ insofar as Chinese curses were concerned. "Officer Marie Dubois of the Compiégne police force is also one of our spies within Opus Dei. Unfortunately, she was wearing her pin -"

"And Robert saw it and ran," Sophie concluded. A frustrated palm banged off the steering wheel. "How could this happen?"

"He jimmied open a window in the men's water closet," Mitch said dryly. "A fine, quick job he made of it, too. By the time DuBois forced the door, he was probably already out on the main street. From there, a teller in the Compiégne train station identified Langdon as having bought two tickets off him, around one-fifty, just after he escaped the police's attention."

"Tickets to where?" David leant forward from the back seat.

"Paris and Amiens," Mitch shook his head. "In complete opposite directions, and from trains leaving near the same time. Which confused the teller enough that he remembered it."

"Whoever is following him will have to divide their forces to find him," Sophie muttered, tailing Fache through the gates of the Hospital parking garage. Three pairs of eyes were set to the task of scanning for space to park. "He has probably come to Paris; but the threat that he might go elsewhere means they won't want to chance missing him."

"I hate to be the one to say it, but Opus Dei doesn't need to divide its resources to find Langdon," David pointed out. A finger waggled at a spot of concrete devoid of vehicles. "They'll simply alert their members in Amiens, and there will be even _more_ people on our Knight's trail."

"Yes, well, our people in Paris and Compiégne are on the alert, David. With any luck we'll be able to get to him before Opus Dei can."

"Yes, but then what?" Sophie pulled into a space not far from where the Inspector had parked his car. "When does the train come in?"

Mitch unclipped his seatbelt. "Around four-fifteen. Planning to meet it?"

"If Opus Dei is going to be there, so should we."

She closed her door on the blond bodyguard's grumbled, "I don't like this idea."

Fache was waiting. The unflappable Inspector looked . . . haggard, Sophie decided. As if the rug of his convictions had been yanked from under him, forcing him to scramble to keep his feet. Or risk falling. She knew what _that_ felt like."Who is our contact?"

The Inspector waited until all three had left the confines of the car. "Bishop Manuel Aringarosa," he retorted. The name echoed hollowly in the parking garage; with a frown, Fache waved for them to follow.

"That's the second time his name's come up," Mitch noted darkly, tempering his voice for Sophie's and David's ears only.

"I was Opus Dei," the Inspector sighed after flashing his badge to gain entrance to the ICU.

Mitch and David traded wary glances; the bodyguard slipped between Sophie and the possible threat. She found herself sandwiched between Mitch and her brother.

"For many years." Fache led them past the entrance to the ER. Sophie could hear a child crying, overlaying an old man's heartrending groans. "I trusted my Father with my soul." The jacketed shoulders in front of her were tight, tense. "And Aringarosa lied to me. He told me that Professor Langdon confessed to the murder of Jacques Saunière, and three others."

"And you believed him." Mitch used a voice she had heard from Jasper; completely devoid of emotion or censure – a rebuke in itself.

High color stained Fache's cheeks as he rounded a corner. "Yes," he snapped. "It was a lead."

"It was a lie," David countered frostily.

Fache stiffened, but mutely stomached the insult. Four pairs of shoes were loud on spotless linoleum.

"Whether or not the Inspector's decision was correct is not important right now," Sophie cut into the harsh tension. "Bishop Aringarosa is Opus Dei. He may be able to tell us where Robert is." Though thankfully now they were not utterly dependant on whatever information the man might hold. The call from Compiégne had done much to lift her spirits.

"He will probably lie," Mitch muttered as they came to a stop just outside a curtained room in the Intensive Care Unit.

"No." The Inspector's eyes were dark with the certainty of awful knowledge. "He cannot."

"Oh?" It surprised Sophie that David was the one to subtly test Fache.

"After lying to me for so long – I will know."

She could only hope Fache was right.

The bodyguard swept aside the curtain, then, revealing several occupied beds. The Inspector once more took the lead, and the sound of multiple ventilators assaulted Sophie's ears. The work of the life-saving machines was gruesome necessity; she kept her eyes focused on Mitch's back until they slipped past the final curtain.

"Where is he?" David hissed.

Fache stared at the empty bed in shock. "I do not know. He could not have left the Hospital; his Silas shot him in the shoulder. He was brought back from England, and under guard. He should still be here . . ."

"Silas?"

Fache spared her a glance. "An albino monk. An Opus Dei zealot – and a murderer."

So Silas was the name of the man who had killed her grandfather.

"Excuse me," David caught the attention of a nurse making the rounds in this section of the ICU. Identification was revealed, and her brother leveled a kind smile on the woman. "Bishop Aringarosa was being treated just here. Do you know what happened to him?"

When the woman gave him a puzzled smile, her brother switched smoothly to French. Sophie was surprised at that; but it comforted her immensely to hear familiar words in an almost-familiar voice. The feeling of _home_ that had been buried with her parents was slowly waking once more.

"_Of course,"_ the nurse smiled, taken in by David's sweet charm. _"He was improving quickly, and has been moved to Recovery."_

Securing the room number and thanking her, David raised an inquiring brow. "Shall we?"

But when they reached the indicated room, it too was empty; and the officer Fache had assigned to guard Aringarosa was missing. Questioning the doctors revealed that the Bishop had checked himself out earlier that morning, against the protests of the medical staff.

"He was under guard," Fache raged at the chagrined hospital security. "He was not to leave under any circumstances! How did this happen!"

"_Pardon,"_ one man answered in tentative French. _"But his Grace was accompanied by a police officer with the documentation to remove him to another facility." _

"He _what!_"

Sophie had never seen Fache so infuriated. The man stalked the small room they had been ushered into, nearly foaming at the mouth as he fired questions at the hapless security guards. The Inspector barked orders into his cell phone, instituting a city-wide alert for the missing suspect, after dismissing the hospital's security. _"Pathétique. Tout à fait pathétique._ I'm sorry," he turned to the three watching. "I have no other leads."

Sophie glanced at Mitch. "Luckily, we do," she waved the Inspector after them.

"Why did you not inform me of this?" Fache let the irritation show. They entered the hallway and headed for the elevator; Sophie watched the numbers spiral down as the car descended toward them.

"Why should we have?" David inquired politely. The elevator doors closed on glacial silence, and opened on the same. Her brother didn't even bother to glance back at the other man as they exited the Hospital. He and Mitch really were taking this good-cop, bad-cop routine to the limit.

The Inspector halted at their car, fixing all three with a slow stare. "I am the lead investigator on this case, _Monsieur_ St. Claire. That will not change, no matter your personal feelings. You are only hindering my search when you refuse to tell me of any leads you have."

"We have no time to argue," Sophie jumped in ahead of whatever her brother was going to say. She slipped to the driver's side door of her car, shoving the key home before facing Fache. "I am certain that the police in Compiégne will contact the Paris station with the details shortly. But there is the possibility that Professor Langdon will be arriving in Paris by train in forty-five minutes. We have just enough time to get to the station and find the platform."

Fache stood a long moment, staring at her as Mitch and David slipped into the car. "Very well. I will meet you in the train station."

Sophie managed to avoid getting them tangled in the brewing late-lunch traffic, but the ride to the station took longer than it should have. Fache, unfortunately, got stuck behind them, and so when they arrived at the station Sophie and Mitch waited for the Inspector while David went to find out what platform the train was expected at.

When they finally reached their destination, there were only minutes to spare.

For all his animosity, it was David who noticed the Inspector's concerned frown. "What is it?"

"I know that woman." Fache indicated a tiny redhead in a long brown trenchcoat, leaning against a concrete pillar. His eyes traveled the platform, making several stops – all of which Mitch followed, noting with a predator's care. "I know many of the people here. They are Opus Dei."

The bodyguard hissed, straightening against the wall of the platform. "This is not a good idea," he murmured lowly; the words were nearly lost to the loud whistle of an approaching train.

"Why are they here?" Fache was becoming suspicious. His eyes darted to each of them, reading something from stony, expressionless features. "It was not one man of Opus Dei who kidnapped Langdon. The entire sect is after him!"

"Keep your voice down!" David hissed urgently, gripping Fache's arm. "You don't know -"

"I'm right," the Inspector measured David's fearful anger, and the blond bodyguard's granite silence. "What is going on here?"

But at that moment the chance for words was lost, as engine and cars thundered over rails mere meters away. Steel flanks flashed by as the cars slowed, coming to a halt with the ear-splitting scream of overused brakes.

"We will explain later." Sophie glared warningly at David when he would have protested. "We must find Robert. Before _they_ do." Opus Dei had barely waited for doors to open before streaming onto the train.

"Sophie and I will search the crowds getting off," Mitch snapped. "David, Fache – the train. Go."

They split, scouring the crowds of people. Much as Sophie wanted to call for Robert, she knew it would bring unwelcome attention. So she did her best to seek out the lean, dark-haired figure of the Knight among the flowing, noisy throngs of travelers. The tall figure should have stood out, but none of the faces were familiar to her.

The woman and bodyguard stayed on the platform for many minutes, but when Fache and David returned alone from their search of the train, hope plummeted. "Nothing." David shook his head dispiritedly. "Mitch?"

"Opus Dei did not find him," the blond man replied with certainty. "He wasn't on the train."

Sophie's grip tightened on David's arm; she turned dark, worried eyes to her brother. "Where could he be?"

* * *

**A/N:** An ancient Chinese curse – "May you live in interesting times." 

Also, to all those begging me to have Sophie and Robert meet (and there are a surprising lot of you!) - yes, it will happen. Soon, but the story is insisting on writing itself a certain way for now. I'm doing my best to oblige, but I am at the mercy of the bunnies. Fluffy little slave drivers . . .


	7. Chapter 7

Langdon did his very best to look as if he had every right to be where he was as he strode through the Compiégne train station. It was eleven at night – late enough for the crowds to have thinned out to the point where anyone looking for him would not have to search too hard. Yet still early enough for people to need to travel.

_Things are different in Europe._

The cities seemed to hibernate in the late afternoon and early evening, coming alive a few scant hours after midnight. There were parts of the Harvard campus he wouldn't dare walk through at this time of night; but here, it was almost safe.

_Almost._

He approached a night teller with a small smile. "Hello."

Taking the cue, the young man nodded genially. "Good evening, sir. How may I help you?"

Memory. _The line wasn't too long, thankfully. Robert glanced up at the sign announcing ticket prices; over a loudspeaker voices pronounced in three languages the trains departing within the next half-hour. The sign was written in French; the English below it was tiny, but legible. 'No refunds. Exchanges only.'_

"I missed my train this afternoon. I was wondering if I could exchange my ticket for another."

The teller grasped the unused ticket, professionally scanning the pertinent information. "Of course, sir. Will there be a change in your destination?"

"No."

Fingers tapped at keys; a tinny voice was piped through glass by a small headset on the young man's ear. "The next train leaves in ten minutes. Do you need more time?"

"No. That would be fine, thank you." Robert swallowed his sigh of relief. No matter how carefully a plan was executed, Murphy's Law played merry havoc in train stations. Punctuality was rare – and he couldn't risk staying out in plain sight longer than absolutely necessary.

Money and paper were exchanged; moments later Langdon was on the platform, and boarding the train. He found a seat in the back of a mostly-empty car, and slouched out of sight next to the aisle.

Several more people settled in the car, but the final boarding had taken place. Minutes later, velocity gently pushed Robert back into his seat. The train gathered speed until it was rattling along the tracks over one hundred and twenty kilometers per hour, leaving the city of Compiégne far behind.

_Not safe. Not yet._ But he was finally on his way.

And since he was on the move, this was probably the safest place for what he planned to do next. One jacket pocket yielded up Moreau's cellular phone; seconds later a soft chime sounded as it finished powering up.

Robert started to scroll through the menu.

_Contacts._ Nothing. The address book was empty; and he frowned. No emergency numbers, no take-out restaurants. No personal information. The settings on the phone were all the basic startup options. No hint of the man's personality, and no information that would tell him of the next step.

It was when he found the listing of dialed and received calls that he hit jackpot. Two numbers kept reappearing in both lists, over and over again. And they were regularly interspersed.

_As if the Disciple was reporting to someone. Or receiving instructions._

The glow of the phone died as Langdon shut it off. The train was passing through dark countryside; in deference to the sleeping passengers, the lights had dimmed, softening the utilitarian browns of the seating and floor with shadows. A few people moved about, from their seats to the bathroom and back.

An old woman, gray hair hidden under a drab scarf, sat across the aisle from him. Settled herself, and clucked as she stared out the window for a long moment. "So dark, is it not?" English. With an American accent, despite the antiquated phrasing.

Robert was startled enough to look over. Her face was not as lined as her stooped posture suggested; sharp eyes were on him. He clamped down on the fear surging through pounding veins. "Excuse me?"

"So dark," the woman repeated. And flashed him a quiet smile. "The con of man."

Hope fluttered wildly, tethered by fear. For a long moment, he was chained in indecisive silence. _Trap,_ one part of him warned. The greater part wanted it to be help, wanted it to be true. Fight and flight circled, snarling, clawing his nerves in turn.

"My name is Jean LeFavre," she introduced herself quietly. "We've been looking for you."

Knuckles clenched bone-white on the arm of the dirty seat. Still he could find nothing to say; Langdon stared straight ahead. The noise of his heart was loud in his ears. A panic he had only ever associated with tight spaces was creeping in on him. There was nowhere he could go. _Nowhere to run._

The woman said gently, "Sophie has been worried."

Deep breath. "Who are you?"

"Jean LeFavre," she repeated, patience in the softness of her voice. The woman waited until a portly, black-suited man passed them on his way back from the lavatory. "One of what you would call the Priory of Sion."

"Why should I believe you?"

"I don't expect you to." That honesty surprised Robert as well. She laughed at the skeptical look he shot her. "I just hope I can convince you to listen to me, instead of jumping out the window." A playful gleam in sharp eyes told him that she knew exactly how he had slipped away from the police in Compiégne. And that the same trick wouldn't work twice.

He had never liked tight spaces. Blue eyes narrowed; Langdon's mind raced at impossible speeds, leaving the frantic pounding of his heart beating an excruciatingly slow tempo. Carefully, the black-haired head nodded.

LeFavre leant back comfortably. "I'm an American, as I'm sure you can tell. For the past few years I've made my living in France. I work in information exchange, data analysis – that sort of thing."

Robert jerked, incredulous. "You're a spy." _And you're telling me?_

A sly grin congratulated him. "They said you were quick. I happen to prefer the term _operative._"

Langdon folded his hands, not sharing her humor. "I left my patience in my other jacket. What's your point?"

"I can help you," she said seriously. "Perhaps more than anyone at the American Embassy. You need not only to get to America, but to get out from under the microscope Opus Dei has you under. Without losing your life in the process."

"It's that simple, then?" he asked, nettled.

"It's that simple," she agreed. Her voice softened. "You've done surprisingly well up to this point, Professor Langdon. But sooner or later, even the best of us makes a mistake – and this isn't who you are. Let me help you. Please."

"That's what I don't understand," he bit out. "Why should you want to help me? You don't know me from Adam – and what I know of you isn't inspiring any great faith in me."

She didn't grin at him, like he'd half-suspected she might; instead, the 'old' woman took his question seriously. And, in the manner of spies and psychologists, answered with another question. "How do you think the Priory lasted this long, Professor?"

In truth, he didn't know. But if he'd learned one thing through the last few days, it was that bluffing was a skill he hadn't cultivated anywhere near enough. "I presume you're going to tell me."

A slim, wrinkled hand with a simple wedding ring pulled back the scarf over her hair. He was nearly positive the sheen of silver revealed had been sprayed on. _After all, who's afraid of a harmless old woman?_

"You know history." LeFavre settled a bulky purse on her lap. "And you know religion. So when I tell you that religious groups have a history of fractioning over time, it should come as no great surprise. Protestantism is only the most obvious example. The many subsets of Catholicism and Judaism and Islam that have been squabbling with one another for hundreds of years are more. America was formed because of a religious division; the Pilgrims wanted a place where they wouldn't be persecuted, and could in turn persecute everyone else."

"There's been enough social and economic change in the past few thousand years that a group such as the Priory should have split a dozen times over," Langdon agreed, sensing the vein the conversation was taking. It was a stumbling point for scholars trying to prove the mythical group's existence.

"But it didn't." LeFavre leant toward him, and he could see now that much of her age was manufactured through expression and cosmetics. She couldn't be older than fifty, rather than the eighty she played at. "Over two thousand years, and the group has not only remained a secret, but the information it guards has remained solidly in the realm of obscure myth. By all laws of anthropology and human nature, with so many people involved, that shouldn't be possible."

_Unless they were bound by more than mere religious ideology,_ Robert realized. He wasn't an anthropologist, but he didn't have to be. _The simplest answer is usually the correct one. _A blue stare settled evenly over the spy. "How are you related?"

"I am descended from Simon, called Peter." LeFavre's voice, as she proclaimed her ancestor an apostle of Jesus, was a mere whisper. "And I am David's godmother."

Langdon blinked. "Ah, David?"

"Oh, of course – you didn't meet him. David is Sophie's brother."

The article had said the boy was dead. Then again, it had also said that Sophie had been killed in the accident as well. _Clever._ Hiding not one child, but two. Still, while the story seemed to ring true, there was one thing that didn't sit right. "St. Peter?" he asked neutrally. "The man the Vatican set up as the one to continue Jesus' Church? I'd hardly expect to find a descendant of his among the Priory. More likely Opus Dei."

"He had nothing to do with that!" she snapped, true ire flaring in sharp eyes. "He was long dead when the church decided to set him up as a traitor to everything he held dear! He -" The approach of a conductor, and the announcement that they would be pulling into Paris momentarily, forced her to swallow hot words.

Langdon couldn't tell if she passed the test or not. Spies were of necessity smooth liars. But the emotion _felt_ genuine. And even if he was walking into a trap, knowing that he was gave him an advantage. A very _slight_ advantage – but more than he'd had dealing with the Disciple.

When she had the chance to speak again, LeFavre had used the time of enforced silence to collect herself. "I know a safehouse in Paris," she offered, knotting the scarf under her chin. "Owned and protected by the Priory. You should be safe there, at least for tonight."

He didn't answer; instead, checked his pockets as the train finished pulling to a stop.

"Professor," the woman hissed. "You can't go to the Embassy. Opus Dei _knows_ that's the first place you'll head. You may have thrown them off by switching trains and lying low in Compiégne, but they know you have to go to the Embassy eventually. They'll be waiting for you there!"

Langdon froze, standing half-in the empty aisle. She was right. Less effort for them to simply lie in wait where he was sure to go, and intercept him before he got there. One option. He met the spy's gaze evenly. "Safehouse?" he asked quietly.

It was a small, white house, not far from the center of the city; no different in structure or landscaping from the others on this street. _Except the Rose Line runs through it._ Langdon glanced down at the brass marker embedded in the house's front walk.

LeFavre had driven them sedately through the streets and intersections, explaining as she did. When they reached the safehouse, she would place a call to other members of the Priory. They would arrive in moments, and then the group could begin to sort out an answer to this mess.

The kitchen was small, and warm, and well-lit. Comfortable, unlike the showy clutter of Sir Leigh's Chateau de Villette. LeFavre dropped the car keys on the table, her posture easily losing the stoop and shuffle of extreme age. She straightened with a crackling of vertebrae, and her stride lengthened. Sitting, after that strange train ride, was the last thing he wanted to do; instead of taking a chair, Langdon held up the wall beside the stove.

He watched as the spy put a pot of water on to boil, and then moved to plug a small device in the junction of receiver and phone cord. He watched in interest as she dialed an 800 number, pressed several keys simultaneously, and was redirected. "I have him," she said quietly. "When can you be here? Good."

He didn't take his eyes off her as she hung up the phone. "That was Mitch," she announced. "He was one of the bodyguards for Marie Chauvel, whom you met in England. He's here, with Sophie and David."

Blue eyes snapped to hers. "They're _here?_" He'd thought she was safe, in England – not in the hornet's nest stirred up by Opus Dei.

"You've tried telling her not to do something? You can imagine how well it worked when both of them decided they were going to look for you."

Langdon clamped down the urge to swear. Let blue eyes slide shut in exasperation, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Wonderful."

She handed him a cup. "You are the first Knight the Priory has known in a thousand years," the spy told him. "_That_ is why we searched for you. _That_ is why we want to help you. Because you did everything you could to help us; and you brought our lost daughter home. You may not be blood, but you are family."

"Tea?" he frowned, desperate to change the subject.

"Chamomile." The sly smile reappeared, telling him that she knew what he was up to. "You are in trouble because of us," she continued, refusing to let him dodge. "Opus Dei would never have targeted you if the Grand Master had not needed your help. Now – we will try to rectify what we have done."

_That's what you think._ Robert didn't want to touch the idea – but a gut feeling told him that Opus Dei would have been looking for him anyway. And now, they had suspicions and half-truths tempting enough to follow him across the globe. If they ever learned the truth, that he _knew_ where the Grail lay . . .

"After all," LeFavre shrugged, wiping off the last of her makeup to reveal a face with a decade's more wear than his own. "You don't know where the Grail is." She gave a sorrowed sigh. "Jacques Sauniére took that secret to his grave."

Langdon's face tightened, and he sipped the tea she had prepared.

But she saw something in his expression that made her pale, and study him more closely. Her voice was a mere thread of sound."You _do_ know where it is."

Fingers swirled the teacup, watching amber liquid ripple smoothly against porcelain. "I suspect," Robert told her quietly. "Only that."

The spy's eyes were wide. "You -"

A soft scuffing at the kitchen door interrupted her.

"What was that?" Robert's head snapped toward the noise.

"Mitch," LeFavre muttered, a gun appearing in her hand. "I hope."

"Too soon," Langdon breathed, trading a worried glance with the spy.

Which was when the window over the sink exploded.


	8. Chapter 8

"Time to go!" Mitch shook a snoring David, and hustled Sophie out of her chair.

"Where?"

Half-asleep, her brother groaned, "Wha – Mitch – whazz goin' on. . ."

"Langdon is in Paris." Mitch waited impatiently at the door of the hotel room.

David was suddenly on his feet, straightening his shirt as he went.

"I just got a call from one of our members on the lookout for him in Compiégne. She followed him on the evening train to Paris, and convinced him to go with her. They're in a safehouse not far from the Louvre, and she's mobilized a few local members of the Priory. They should be there within a half-hour. Come."

Sophie pulled the door shut behind them as they strode into the hall. It was a little after one in the morning; the only one of them who'd been able to sleep was David. And even he'd only stopped pacing to lie down an hour ago.

"How far is the safehouse?" David tumbled into the front seat, and Sophie scrambled into the back as Mitch gunned the ignition.

"Twenty minutes," the blond bodyguard retorted, speeding through back streets. "We'll be there in ten."

Sophie grabbed for her seatbelt. David sucked in a breath as Mitch scooted through a gap that looked barely wide enough for a bicycle, never mind the car.

"Why the rush?" David managed, about as relaxed as a steel rod.

"LeFavre used a landline." Mitch sent them careening past a truck and into the opposite lane, scooting out of the way of an oncoming car just in time. A horn blared frantically.

Sophie caught a glimpse of the driver's angry face and a one-fingered salute. "One car accident in my life is more than enough," she snapped.

"Sorry." But Mitch didn't slow. "LeFavre used a landline. We have equipment that can prevent a trace. But with our luck -"

"You think someone knows where they are?"

"There was a soft clicking on the line that wasn't coming from her end," the bodyguard confirmed.

Sophie sat a moment, thinking. "Go faster."

But they were still too late.

Moments after they slammed to a stop on a sleeping street of homes, Mitch tried the front door of the nondescript safehouse. Locked. Breaking glass from the back of the house had them running. Sprinting past small bushes and over a short half-wall, Sophie arrived in time to see a dark figure slip past billowing smoke and through a back door.

Only a few steps behind him, she caught a gasp of the wafting, cloudy air; it was choking and thick, and made her head whirl.

"Here." Mitch shoved a thick handkerchief into her hand, covering his own face with a second. David was already cautiously approaching the house.

The kitchen was filled with the lung-clawing gas. Her brother darted for the spraying canister, and ran outside with it. Shards of china crunched underfoot. The noise of fighting drew her out to the hall.

Mitch had his gun trained on a pair of fighters blurred by thick wisps of smoke; Sophie couldn't make out who was who as the two grappled, slamming into walls with bone-jarring force. Behind her, the noise of a window sliding up told her David was back, and fighting the knockout gas as much as he could.

A strangled cry caught her attention; the taller, slim figure dropped. From the ground, the woman kicked out, knocking the masked intruder to the carpet. A gloved hand groped frantically over carpet.

Mitch's finger tightened on the trigger. And froze, as the gun wheeled in the attacker's hand to point to someone they hadn't seen. Someone who had been concealed by opaque, noxious gas.

Robert was standing just inside the front door, face buried in the crook of his elbow as he futilely tried to breathe without inhaling somnolent fumes.

The intruder gained his feet, aim never wavering. "I will shoot him." The masculine voice was garbled by the gas mask concealing his face; one that let him breathe without fear of being affected by the drugs he had released into the air.

Three things happened at once.

David rushed by her, tackling the kidnapper. As the noise of the gunshot blasted through the hallway, Robert dropped back against the wall with a harsh cry.

Her brother ripped the mask off the man. Mitch was at his side, forcing the attacker to the ground, and snapping a set of plastic ties around flailing wrists.

Sophie reached Robert, and to her relief found that he was still breathing. Blue eyes snapped open at her touch, and she wasted no time unlatching the door and leading them out into the clear night air. Lights were glowing to life in the neighboring houses; Sophie could hear the noise of sirens approaching.

Lowering the handkerchief, she gratefully inhaled clean oxygen. Still gripping the Knight's elbow, she led Robert to the small brick wall bordering the property.

Langdon was silent but for the noise of ragged gasps as he gulped in air. Sophie guided the wavering man to slump against steadying brick, and sought recognition in dazed, pained blue eyes. "Robert? Robert."

A few moments later, recognition shone clear. "Sophie?"

Relief poured in a cool stream through her veins. She grabbed him in a fierce hug. "I was so worried!"

"You came back to France?" Robert frowned at her, sitting back. "You shouldn't have. Sophie -"

A ragged voice spewed curses as Mitch and David hauled the swearing attacker through the door, and dropped him in the wet grass.

"Are you finished?" Mitch asked, calmly taking a step back from the struggling, twisting form. Profanity sizzled the air between them. The blond bodyguard shared a speaking glance with David. "Gag him."

"With pleasure." Her brother straddled the man, accepting Mitch's tie with a grin. By the time the police had pulled up, the attacker was reduced to muffled noises and kicking fruitlessly like a stranded fish.

A dark stain shone wetly on one sleeve. "You're bleeding."

"The paramedics are here." Robert kept his eyes on the man in the grass, whom the police were now cuffing and hauling to his feet.

"Come on." It didn't take much urging.

Fache stopped just outside the ambulance as Robert shrugged out of the light brown jacket. The paramedic helped him pull the black sweater off, revealing healing red lines scoring both forearms, and a deep, oozing graze on one shoulder. Clad in only a thin white shirt, the professor shivered.

"Do you know this man?"

Robert studied the Polaroid, taken only moments ago, and nodded. "He showed up at my hotel room two nights ago. Said there was a problem at the front desk; and then he kidnapped me."

"Do you know his name?" Fache's manner was different; just as brusque and businesslike, but less confrontational than before.

"He told me to call him the Disciple," Robert winced as antiseptic bubbled in the wound. Latexed fingers dabbed gently with gauze, cleaning out the graze. "I went through his wallet after I managed to get away. He had a license that said his name was Evrard Moreau."

"And how did you get away?"

Question by gentle question, Fache pulled the story out of Langdon as Sophie sat silently by. She had questions of her own, but couldn't ask them until the Inspector was gone.

"Everyone all right?" Sophie started; Mitch walked too quietly, sometimes. The blond bodyguard spent a long moment looking her over for injury, before turning to the Knight.

Robert nodded, and her brother stuck out a hand toward the professor sitting in the back of the ambulance. "My name is David St. Claire."

Robert understood what couldn't be said. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise." There was more that David wanted to say; Fache's silent, observing presence clamped their ability to talk freely with one another.

As they were speaking, the woman was brought out of the house on a stretcher, and loaded into an ambulance.

"Will she be alright?"

Mitch smiled at his concern. "Jean's a tough old lady. Been in the business for a long time. She'll be fine; it was just a minor concussion. She's being observed for internal hemorrhaging, because of her age and because she took a few hits to the midsection."

The professor nodded, reaching for his sweater. "A little deeper and you might have needed stitches," the paramedic cautioned, taping down a gauze pad. "Keep it dry, and clean. If you notice any swelling or redness around the wound, it is most likely infection. Come in to the hospital immediately."

Langdon's thanks was muffled by soft wool; pushing the sleeves of the sweater down, he repeated himself in halting French. The paramedic smiled, and Sophie helped him into his jacket.

It took only the time for the ambulance to drive away for Robert to notice the many cars, discreet and inconspicuous, parking on the street. Several individuals were waiting in them; Sophie eyed the commotion.

"Not to worry," Mitch breathed in her ear. "I sent for them."

Fache had stalked off, muttering something about gathering statements, as soon as the forensic team had arrived a few moments later.

Freed from the constraints of secrecy for a moment, Langdon frowned at all of them. "Sophie. What are you doing in France?" His glance included her brother, and the frown was aimed at Mitch.

"We came to look for you," Sophie retorted. She could understand his disapproval, but she didn't much care for it.

"I see," was all he said.

"Professor Langdon," Mitch's voice was cool. The man eyed his stretched tie, obtained from the police with disgust. "Why were you kidnapped?" The tie became a balled-up lump in one pocket.

"The Disciple was under the impression that I was searching for the Holy Grail."

Grass bent softly as they trooped across the lawn of the safehouse. "But the quest is over. My grandfather took the location of the Grail to his grave."

"Opus Dei doesn't know that," Robert pointed out.

"But Teabing does now," David interjected with a frown. He leant against the hood of their car. "Shouldn't that mean the hunt for you has stopped?"

Robert gave him a true frown of puzzlement. "Why would it?"

Sophie was confused; so too from their expressions were Mitch and her brother. "Teabing is in contact with Opus Dei, he is their 'teacher'." A clink of metal as the blond bodyguard turned keys into her waiting palm. S

"Sir Leigh is in jail." Robert pinched the bridge of his nose. "He's an old, crippled man bound to a wheelchair. He has no more contact with Opus Dei. They know him for a traitor. How long do you think he would last if his true identity was known to them?"

"He's vulnerable," Mitch agreed. The man opened the door, ushering her brother and Robert into the back.

"He's no longer involved," the professor shrugged, glancing warily at the cars falling into line behind them as they left the scene. "He can't be." A beat of silence. "Where are we going?"

"Back to the hotel," Sophie answered. "We need to all of us meet, and decide what to do. Where to go from here."

"We have to find a way to protect you from Opus Dei," her brother added. Sophie made a dogleg turn through a roundabout, intent on sweeping them in a large loop back to the center of Paris.

"Can't be done." Robert checked his seatbelt, answering with the assurance of a man who's thought the situation through from every angle. "Opus Dei stretches across the globe, and I intend to be back in America eventually. The best we can hope for is to convince them that I don't know where the Grail is."

"Where is the clue?" Sophie was suddenly reminded. "The papyrus, from the cryptex?"

"I don't have it," Robert answered. The lights were brighter as they approached the heart of Paris.

"What -"

"You -"

"Where is it?"

Sophie saw the reflection of a raised hand in her rearview mirror. "It's in Rosslyn Chapel," the professor answered quietly. "In the records area, I slipped it into the section containing Jacques Sauniére's notes and such. It should be safe."

A collective sigh breezed through the car.

"One less worry," Mitch muttered.

"Here's another." Sophie pulled the car around the side of the hotel, parking with care. "Let's go."

**

* * *

A/N: **Sorry for the delay. I was bitten by a bunny in the form of the movie , but I don't know if it's going to go anywhere. I also will be getting a summer job quite soon on top of an extra class, and so my writing time is going to take a drastic dive. I am not abandoning this fic – just be aware that updates in the near future are going to be somewhat . . . sporadic. Thanks again to all my readers and reviewers for sticking with me! 


	9. Chapter 9

_I need to sleep._

Unfortunately, that didn't look to be a viable possibility anytime soon.

There were over fifteen of them, crowded into the hotel room; it was spacious, but enough surfaces were taken that later arrivals leant against the walls. Their faces were ordinary, their clothes undistinguishable. Robert had never seen any of them; none had been in Roslin Chapel aside from the three arrayed at his side.

But David smiled on seeing who had shown. "We've word from the hospital," he raised his voice over low conversation. Silence fell immediately. "Jean will be fine. They want to keep her under observation for two days, but there's no internal bleeding."

"Ten Euros she's up to her usual mischief." An older, balding man grinned at the young African woman leaning against the wall next to his seat on one duvet-covered bed.

"No bet," she retorted. "I may be young, but I'm no fool to place a wager against you, Maurice."

The light laughter was pleasant enough, but he really was too tired to make an effort at understanding the joke. Robert kept his mouth shut, rather than vent his temper. _I can't even work up the energy to be angry._

"Back to business," Mitch stepped forward. "This is Professor Robert Landgon. The Grand Master called on him to help us several days ago, before he and our three Sénéchaux were killed defending the location of the Grail. He helped us at cost to himself, and now is being pursued by Opus Dei."

"Why?" The young African woman's face was drawn in concentrated thought.

"Unfortunately, Opus Dei is unaware that our Grand Master took the location of the Grail to his grave."

"Manuel Aringarosa, not Opus Dei," Sophie corrected. "I doubt most of the sect has any idea what's going on."

"But he can't be acting alone," Robert objected. "He must have the approval of the Church."

"Ze Council of Shadows 'as sanctioned murders before," rumbled a singularly heavyset woman through a thick French accent.

"The Council of Shadows." A weight dropped into Robert's stomach, a blow to the senses. _It really does exist, then._ Most of what he knew was academic only; but if a fraction of it was true . . .

"But the point is still valid." A man unremarkable but for his slender height spoke from behind a group of four pressed between bed and window. "The Council of Shadows may not know that this Aringarosa has failed."

"Which means he shall continue to try to find the Grail. Professor Langdon was kidnapped after coming to Roslin Chapel, following the last clue – this shows that he has not given up yet."

"Or that the kidnapping was a contingency plan in place before he even made the first move," David countered.

"The problem," murmured a teenage boy at Maurice's side, "is that we don't know what this Aringarosa knows."

"But we know what he's done, which is almost as good," the African woman pointed out.

Dark hair bobbed with Sophie's agreement.

Robert really wasn't in the mood for games. "Explain."

"He can only act based off what he knows." Sophie's brother was becoming excited, brown eyes flashing. "He's been acting on Teabing's orders this whole time. That's the only way he could have known the identities of the Grand Master and Sénéchaux." The bitterness in David's words found echoes in the still faces filling the hotel room. The scholar had done his research for years; Opus Dei had two millennia, but they were hampered by that history as much as they were helped by it.

"And the kidnapper?" the teen challenged.

"Evrard Moreau. He called himself the Disciple," Robert interjected.

"That's Aringarosa acting on his own." Mitch was using the scant meter available to him to pace.

A middle-aged man just inside the door folded his arms. "Is this Disciple in custody?"

"Yes," Sophie's hands fisted. "We caught him after he attacked the safehouse. He is in police custody now for two counts of attempted murder."

Robert shivered. _In Fache's custody._ Which meant that sooner or later, they would have to head back to the police station to give their statements. _And to get his._

"But what about Aringarosa?" the teen burst out. "He's the head of the snake."

_"Exactament." _Sophie smiled over at the boy. The expression disappeared. "And we have no way of knowing if he will strike again."

David was tapping one heel absently against the wall. "We need to persuade the Council of Shadows to call him off."

"Or dangle the Professor out in plain sight to get his attention," mused a voice from the back of the room. "We'd have our own opportunity to deal with him then."

Robert rubbed sore wrists through ripped wool. "No thank you!"

"No." Mitch ran fingers through messy blond strands. "It's too great a risk, especially if we don't capture this Disciple."

"This Disciple is only a dog, running to Aringarosa's call," Sophie objected. "And if Aringarosa is making his moves with approval from this Council . . . ."

"In fact," Robert started thinking aloud. One hand went to his still-sore throat. "I wonder how much the Council of Shadows knows of what he's actually doing."

Silence reigned for a short time. David's eyes were distant. "Then it would seem that the only way to stop all this is to go directly to the Council. They can curtail Aringarosa's movements, put a halt to this altogether."

"Bold," Maurice muttered. Aged eyes wandered over the room, flicking a glance at Robert that sliced down to the marrow. "We can't take the chance of revealing ourselves any more than we have been in the last few days."

Tension sprang up in the room, crisscrossing from various individuals, present and unspoken.

"He is the first Knight our order has known in centuries," snapped the man who had suggested using Robert as bait. "You can't possibly think we'll abandon him now!"

"I wasn't suggesting -"

"Then what _exactly_ were you -"

"Hold on just a -"

Noise exploded as suddenly everyone was trying to be heard over one another.

_"Be quiet!"_ Mitch spoke into the terse silence. "I spoke with Jean." The bodyguard's whole body hesitated before turning to Robert. "She said. . . She told me that you know -"

"That I know where the Grail is." Low as his voice was, by the time Robert finished the bodyguard's sentence, he'd gathered every eye in the room.

"Do you?" Maurice, hope shining from every line of his body.

_What do I say to that?_ "I – maybe. I would have to check." Noncommittal as he tried to be, there was a sudden energy surging through every person in the room that he could almost touch.

"She also said that there's a way to stop Opus Dei from targeting you, ever again." David, stepping forward now.

Thoughts of sleep disappeared under the buzz of adrenaline. "How?"

"We know quite a lot of things that the Council of Shadows would rather not have come into public knowledge."

"The murders," Sophie's face clenched. The man she had known all her life as her grandfather had been killed at Aringarosa's order. His heart hurt at the expression she wore.

"Is the evidence solid enough to prove that?" Robert didn't believe they could have been so careless. "And . . . isn't there some risk of retaliation?" _After all, they know about the Priory . . ._

"Not at all," old Maurice grinned slyly. "The Holy Grail – Mary Magdalene as Jesus' wife? Who would believe them? It's nonsense! Make believe! Blasphemy, that the Catholic Church could believe such a thing!" He chuckled, laughter rippling through the room.

The African woman patted old Maurice on the shoulder. "They have less proof of our existence than we do of theirs. And you must be the one to approach them with the deal, Professor. The Priory shan't be connected at all."

He hadn't come this far to lose courage, or sight of what the true goal was, now. So Robert decided to accept with the best grace he could manage as the adrenaline slipped away and exhaustion took a firmer hold on his mind. "Of course."

"Right." Mitch stopped his pacing, fingers snapping in thought. "Betsy, Frances, and Eric, I need you to start gathering the evidence," he turned toward the window and the people positioned before it. "Cyrille, Marjolaine, Étienne, and Valéry, I need you to contact -"

"Are you alright, Robert?"

He blinked, opening eyes more inclined to droop; Mitch was delegating with David overseeing. Sophie's face, concerned, hovering before him. A smile appeared from somewhere, and he gave it to her. "I'm tired." A thought occurred. "And I have. . ." Fingers fumbled for a pen, paper – something to write with and on. David slipped a pencil to his hand, and Robert swiped a napkin from under one of the upturned glasses on the bureau. Two series of numbers scrambled over thin paper.

"What is this?" Lifted between two fingers, Sophie passed the napkin to her brother.

"Phone numbers?" David was reaching for his own.

"From the Disciple's cell phone."

The hand immediately dropped; Mitch plucked the thin tissue from Sophie's brother. "Then we have a place to start, it seems." The napkin then went to a group of five wedged between the room's two beds, clustered around the phone.

"They know better than to use a landline," Mitch assured Sophie as he returned. Robert hoped so; the Disciple's attack on the Priory 'safehouse' had been swift and precise.

_Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep._

Heads turned; the noise was very close. Sophie held up a beeper, and began reading the text. "It's Fache. He wants to see me at the station; he's questioning the Disciple. And he wants Robert there."

"I'm going with you," Mitch said immediately, heading toward the door.

David reached for his coat as well, but the blond bodyguard took it from him. "I need someone here just to make sure everything keeps running smoothly. Stay, David."

Robert watched, curious, as a silent battle of wills took place. One that the elder St. Claire lost, draping the coat over a hook with a huff. He'd much rather stay at the hotel, memories from the kidnapping or no; sleep was becoming harder and harder to push off.

"Professor Langdon?"

Sophie and Mitch were waiting at the door, puzzlement and concern washing over him in waves. The last time he'd seen anyone look at him like that had been before his mother died. "Coming."

If he tried, he could concentrate on the conversation buzzing around him as they walked down the hall to the elevator; he did catch a few words here and there. But Robert's greatest battle at this point was that against exhaustion. He'd been able to rest in Compeigne, but the past five days had afforded him far too few opportunities to do so.

Leather cushioning welcomed him as he slid into the backseat of the car they'd arrived at the hotel in. The careful motions of the vehicle with Sophie behind the wheel – and not racing for their lives, for once – soothed him into comforting darkness.


End file.
